Chapter Six

SOMETIMES SYDNEY FORGETS.

Sometimes, entrenched in the joy of doing what she loves with people she loves, of looking in the mirror and being content with what she sees, of calling home to proud parents and standing at the edge of a stage, eyes closed while people scream her lyrics back to her, sometimes Sydney forgets that she’s not just some girl living her dream.

But she is always reminded, eventually.

Today, that reminder comes in the form of two drunk men at the bar where they’re celebrating after yet another sold-out show.

It’s 2:00 a.m., and Sydney’s past her threshold of overstimulation, the adrenaline from the show faded to an uncomfortable alcohol-heightened buzz under her skin. She steps outside to breathe and post some pictures on Instagram, and as she’s choosing which filter to use on the selfie she’d taken with the crowd that night, she’s interrupted by a group of girls who recognize her—who had been at the concert earlier that night. Sydney signs their tour shirts, takes selfies with them and a few other people who are attracted by the group’s attention. And then, leaning back against the warm brick of the club, she’s just opened Instagram again when two men approach her. The casualness of their interruption, the ease with which they poison the well of contentment in her chest, is startling. There are people close enough that she doesn’t feel physically in danger, but none of the people are so close they can hear the quiet, pointed words. The threats of what they’d do if they could get her alone. The favor they’d be doing the world if they did.

Sydney doesn’t respond. What can she say to people whose purpose isn’t to listen.

She backs her way inside. Points them out to security when they follow her. She orders an Uber to the hotel and texts the others she’s leaving. She has the car pick her up at the back entrance.

Sydney cries, furious about crying, while she showers.

After, lying in the dark, she can’t sleep. She unlocks her phone, stares at the still-unposted selfie from an hour before, and then swipes away. Sydney doesn’t want to be alone. But her closest friends are rightfully celebrating their victory, and she knows if she calls them, they’d come back, but they’ll also be drunk, and they spend too much of their time worrying about her as it is.

Her parents aren’t an option. Her mom needs what rest she can get and her dad’s blood pressure is already a mess.

Sydney tries Wade first on the off chance he’s driving overnight. No answer.

MJ. No answer.

Eli. Straight to voicemail.

Matts answers immediately—before she can rethink the impulse and hang up.

“Hey,” he says. “Hold on, let me put you on speaker.”

“What are you doing?”

“Cooking. My internal clock is fucked, and I figured if I couldn’t sleep, I’d do something useful. So. Meal prepping.”

“How are you defining ‘cooking’?”

Something clatters in the background. “Salmon, brussels sprouts with a balsamic reduction—Eli’s recipe—and sweet potatoes. And I’ve got a crock pot with chili running and cornbread in the oven too. Should end up with a dozen meals between the two when I’m done.”

“Shit. Is there anything you can’t do?”

Matts thinks about it. “Navigate social situations without anxiety. Conceptualize the benefit of the switching strategy when faced with a Monty Hall problem. Laundry. There are probably others.”

“Stop being funny, I’m trying to be grumpy, and you are distressingly close to making me smile.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not forgiven.”

“All right, well, fuck you, too, I guess.”

“Much better, thank you.”

“So,” Matts says after a comfortable silence. “Why are you grumpy?”

“Because I want to be liked by everyone all the time, and that’s objectively not a feasible goal.”

Matts doesn’t laugh like he’s supposed to. “What happened?” His voice is low. His tone is uncomfortably perceptive.

“Nothing terrible. I wasn’t in danger or anything,” Sydney says. “Just assholes being assholes.”

He doesn’t say anything. It feels like he’s waiting.

“And it’s not even new. I get a dozen shitty comments a day on my social posts, but it— Our record label warned us that the bigger we get, the more notoriety we’ll get. A band entirely made up of queer people is a target, and a queer band fronted by a trans woman is… I don’t know. Something even more enticing than a normal target.” She takes a breath. “Sorry. That was a lot to unload on you at 4:00 a.m.”

“No, it’s fine. It sucks you have to deal with that.”

“It does,” Sydney agrees.

“I saw a couple posts on IG from the concert,” Matts says slowly. “It looks like that went well, at least?”

“It did.” Sydney considers the hesitance in his voice. “I didn’t post anything though. I don’t think Rex or Sky did either.”

“I follow your tag. The Red Right Hand tag. So, my dash has been flooded with video clips the last few hours.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“I also follow Devo, and he posted a picture of you two backstage. But he captioned it ‘having fond thoughts of being an only child.’ What’s that about?”

“It would appear,” Sydney says, “one cannot engage in a bit of innocent tomfoolery without being labeled a menace to society.”

“Are you not?”

“I mean. I’m definitely a menace to Devo . I feel like ‘society’ is an unfair extrapolation. I was bored. He was there.”

“Maybe the next time you’re bored, you can work on my syllabus instead of tormenting your brother.”

“Your syllabus.”

“You said you’d provide me with a musical education.”

“I did say that.”

He’s quiet. Sydney can hear him moving around in the background, can hear the sound of a pan sliding on the stovetop.

“Are you serious?” she asks. Just to be sure.

“Yeah, of course.”

Sydney sits up. “Well, we’re going to do this right, then. Let me get my laptop.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes her a few minutes to locate her glasses and get things set up on the little desk against the opposite wall.

“Okay,” she says, blank document open, “we need to establish a bassline first. Now, I want you to answer honestly, and I promise I won’t judge you…much. What music do you typically listen to?”

Matts makes a noise that feels like the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “I’m not picky. I have a couple genre playlists from Spotify. Rap. Country. Pop. Rock. Alternative. Just depends on my mood. Nothing I’ve curated.”

Sydney can’t fathom interacting with music that way, but Matts probably can’t fathom having to use the calculator app to decide how much to tip at restaurants.

“Right. Okay. I’m going to name some artists, and I want you to tell me your thoughts about them. Positive. Negative. Ambivalent.”

“Okay.”

“Black Sabbath.”

“Positive,” he says confidently.

“Queen.”

“Positive.”

“Van Halen.”

“I can’t actually think of any Van Halen songs.”

She sighs. “Guns N’ Roses.”

“Were they the ones that did ‘Sweet Child of Mine’?”

“Yes.”

“Then positive.”

“Dio.”

“Who?”

“Oh, Matthews. Rage Against the Machine.”

“Uh…ambivalent.”

“Metallica.”

“Same answer.”

“Judas Priest.”

“Negative.”

“Jesus.”

“Is that a band?”

Sydney laughs despite herself. “That’s an exclamation of dismay.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge me.”

“I said I wouldn’t judge you much . This is me judging you a very small amount.”

“You wanted honesty,” Matts says. “That’s my honest opinion. They’re just a little too screamy.”

“Screamy,” she repeats. “ They’re too screamy , says the professional hockey player. Hockey’s default setting is screamy. Your default on the ice is screamy. Especially when they put you in the timeout box.”

“Penalty box,” he says, aggrieved.

“All right, all right. Fine. I did ask for honesty. Let’s talk about more recent bands.”

“I like Red Right Hand,” Matts says promptly.

“Pandering will get you everywhere. How about Mastodon?”

“Don’t know them.”

“Fungi Grotto.”

“I feel like you’re making shit up, now.”

“Edge Land?”

“Negative.” And then, after a funny little pause: “Their music is ‘antiestablishment pandering sitting on a couple barre chords.’”

“It is ,” Sydney agrees gleefully before pausing, fingers poised over her laptop keys. “Wait. That’s almost word for word what I said about them in the kitchen the other day.”

He is suspiciously silent.

“Matts.”

“People like you more if they think you share their opinions,” he says quietly.

Sydney settles her wrists on either side of the track pad. The heater is loud in the early-morning silence. She feels like she’s suddenly lost control of the conversation, as though she has to tread carefully or a tenuous balance will be lost.

“Some people,” Sydney says. “Some opinions. I’d prefer your actual thoughts though.”

“Sorry,” Matts says haltingly. “Habit. I’ve never listened to them, so no thoughts.”

Sydney stands and paces over to the window. Behind the sprawl of glittering cityscape lights, the sky has a predawn blue cast. The exhaustion of the night is finally setting in, and the lights blur as she blinks gritty eyes. She closes them, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. “Do you…typically repeat things back to people because you know it will make them like you?”

“Not all the time.” Matts takes an audible breath. “Sometimes, I feel like everyone else was given a manual for social interaction when they were born. But I wasn’t. Cheating’s always been the easiest way to even the score.”

“How is repeating things others have said cheating?”

“It’s like copying off someone’s paper, right? Everyone else seems to come up with their own ideas just fine.”

“Eh,” she disagrees. “You clearly haven’t seen the over-compressed political memes my grandparents post on social media.”

There’s a choking noise, followed by: “I just spit Gatorade all over my counter, so thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It doesn’t always work, anyway,” Matts says as if it’s an admission. “Half the time, you think you know what people want to hear. But then you talk to a different person or—” He laughs in a way that feels like the opposite of a laugh. “Or you end up with a different team, and suddenly, what was normal to say in one locker room is making everyone really fucking mad at you in another.” He sighs. “Anyway. I’ll try not to do it again with you.”

Sydney wishes she was talking on the phone at her great aunt’s house. Because her great aunt has one of those ancient landlines attached to the wall in the kitchen and she’s desperate for the tactile anchor of wrapping the coiled cord around her finger. Sydney opens her eyes. God, she’s tired.

“So,” she says. “Can I ask you a super invasive question? With the understanding that you are fully permitted to tell me to fuck off because it’s none of my business.”

“Yes.”

“Are you autistic?”

Matts doesn’t respond for several seconds.

“I don’t know,” he says. “And that’s not a cop-out. It’s just that my parents were told when I was a kid they should get me tested. I was held back in kindergarten because I was good at math but wasn’t meeting any reading benchmarks and most of the time refused to speak. Had behavioral problems and struggled with social cues or whatever. But they never did. Mostly because I don’t think they wanted to have to deal with what came next if they did.”

“Well, shit,” Sydney says, leaning back. Her forehead leaves an oily smudge on the window.

“What?”

“I have ADHD. Didn’t find out until after I moved in with my parents, of course. I’ve always been good at socializing and reading and writing but had terrible issues focusing on things I didn’t care about. Like math”—Matts makes an affronted noise—“or Texas fucking history.”

“Remember the Alamo,” he says somberly.

“I was just thinking,” Sydney says around a laugh, “that with our powers combined, we might make one fully functioning human.”

“That would be nice.”

“Wouldn’t it just,” she agrees.

They fall into a companionable silence, and Sydney pulls her sleeve down over her palm to wipe off her forehead smudge. She makes her way back to the couch.

“Hey,” Matts says. “Do you want to play a couple shitty speakerphone duets before I let you go? Or do you need to rest your voice?”

“I do. But I’ve got my acoustic right here. You can be the lead singer. I’ll accompany you.”

“You sure?”

Sydney puts the phone on the table and pulls the guitar into her lap. “You’re already on speakerphone. What do you want to play?”

“How about ‘Wonderwall’?”

“Gross. Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because maybe ,” he sings, “you’re gonna be the one that saves me—”

“Oh, fuck off.”

*

THE FOLLOWING EVENING , Sydney and Sky are procrastinating packing their bags, painting their toenails to the soundtrack of the Hell Hounds–Vegas game on the TV, when Rex barges into the hotel room, sunglasses still on.

“Afternoon,” he calls. “What are you lovely ladies up to?”

“Passing the Bechdel Test,” Sydney says. “Oh, no, never mind, you’ve ruined it.”

“Funny.” He jumps over the back of the couch and settles between them. “Are you lusting after hockey men? That’s not very Bechdel of you.”

“Maybe we’re talking about strategy.”

“Can you name one hockey strategy?”

“Hit opponent,” Sky says promptly.

“Score goal,” Sydney adds.

“Yell about it,” Sky finishes.

“Yeah,” Rex says, “that’s my fault. I should have put better parameters on that ask. Why are you watching hockey?”

“Because,” Sydney says, “we needed a break from trying to decide if we’re willing to be complicit in our own objectification if we’re paid really well for it.”

“Also,” Sky clarifies, “Matts is playing.”

“Minor detail,” Sydney mutters.

“Ah.” Rex pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. “Is this about the article?”

“Mm,” they both agree.

They’ve been offered a print and digital feature for Tone Dead magazine. The print version includes the cover and a three-page article with four pictures. The pay is…nice. But they want to focus on Sky and Syd and that they’re queer women who don’t exactly fit within the more traditional concept of a gender binary. And Syd knows that publicity is publicity, and the magazine wouldn’t be interviewing them at all if they didn’t find their music somewhat praiseworthy on its own merit. But Sydney is tired of being used as a subversive carrot. Especially when, in at least one picture, they want her to be a mostly naked subversive carrot.

“It is a tidy sum,” Rex says. “Are we leaning one way or the other? Money or morals?”

“Money,” Sky says.

“Morals,” Sydney says.

“Sounds like you need a tie breaker.”

“Except, it’s not your tits they’re trying to monetize,” Sydney grumbles.

“Which is offensive, frankly. I have great tits.”

“You do,” Sky says consolingly. She caps her polish, then leans forward to blow on her toes. “In all seriousness, if you don’t want to do it, we won’t do it. We all know the appeal is that taboo shit sells more—but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t benefit others. I mean, they’re still treating our bodies like they’re worth admiration. That’s not meaningless.”

“Fair,” Sydney admits. “But wouldn’t it make you feel a little dirty?”

“If it did, I’d buy myself a very nice loofa with the money they’re throwing at us.”

“Quick swerve,” Rex says, pointing to the TV. “Syd, I believe your man just used all three of your strategies.”

Sydney turns up the volume as the replay rolls, and sure enough, Matts slams another man into the boards, steals the puck from him, and near-simultaneously rockets the puck into the goal. His teammates crash into him, and yes, they all shout quite a bit about it.

“Forget music,” Sky says seriously. “We should coach hockey.”

“Is that allowed?” Rex asks. “Him shoving the other guy like that?”

“Mm,” Sydney agrees. “As long as he had possession of the puck and Matts didn’t hit him from behind. Totally legal.”

But the man Matts checked is furious, regardless of the move’s legality, and within seconds, there are people paired up all over the ice, and the refs are trying to separate Matts and the Vegas player, both of whom have lost their helmets and have their hands fisted in each other’s jerseys. Matts is trying to shake off his remaining glove, grinning while ducking the other player’s flailing arm. His sweaty hair clings to his exertion-flushed face, and he does this little shuffle with his feet that propels him just out of reach of the ref trying to grab him. And then all gloves are off, and they’re both swinging, and the crowd is roaring. Sydney’s biased, but she’s pretty sure Matts is the winner by the time the refs drag them apart and banish them to their respective penalty boxes.

Matts licks his slightly bloodied lip, still grinning, face even more flushed as the other player shouts after him. He shoves his fingers through his hair as he steps into the box, and he yells something that clearly involves the word fuck back. Matts sits down and accepts the water bottle handed to him. He tongues the split in his lip, eyes on the ice.

“That’s hot, right?” Sydney says. “Like, yes, violence is bad or whatever, but that was objectively hot, right?”

“Yes,” Rex and Sky agree.

“Also,” Sydney says belatedly. “Not my man.”

“Sure,” Sky says.

Someone knocks on the door, and they turn as a group to greet Devo, who looks perplexed by the scene in front of him.

“Are y’all watching hockey ?”

“Matts just scored,” Rex says. “It was hot.”

“I’m sure. Are you all planning to pack at some point or…”

“We’ve got four minutes left in the third,” Sydney says. “I’ll finish when it’s over.”

“You say that like it means something to me.”

Sydney flaps a hand at Devo. “I’ll be ready to check out in an hour.”

“Sky? Rex?”

They grumble but get up and head to their own room, leaving Sydney and Devo and the now too-loud TV.

Sydney turns the volume down, and Devo sits next to her. He pulls her open laptop from the coffee table onto his knees and enters her password like a habit. She doesn’t think to stop him until it’s too late.

“What is this?” he asks, scrolling through the open spreadsheet.

She has no way to answer that isn’t damning.

“It’s for Matts.”

Devo waits.

“I’m…educating him. About music. That’s just my planning document. I need to see what he’s already familiar with and what he likes, and then I’ll go from there.”

Devo sighs.

“Yes, all right, I like him. Sue me,” Syd says, eyes firmly on the TV screen. “I’m not trying to start anything. I’m not stupid. But he’s a good person, and I’ve decided we’re going to be friends. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“It was implied.”

“By my breathing ?”

“Go away,” Sydney says.

“Wait, what’s this?” Devo clicks over to her Google Docs tab, and Sydney snatches the laptop away from him before he has a chance to find the even more damning content therein.

“Absolutely not,” she says.

“Are you working on a new song?”

“No comment.”

He studies her defensive position, then slaps his thighs as he stands. “Fine. But with all due respect—which is none, actually, so, with undue respect—I think you’re setting yourself up for a broken heart.”

“Maybe.” Sydney’s aiming for flippant but isn’t sure how successful she is. “But I’ve never had my heart broken before. Worst case, the experience will be good for my creative process.”

“Uh-huh. Just out of curiosity, what would be the best -case scenario, in your opinion?”

“No comment,” she repeats and pointedly turns the volume back up on the TV.

Devo makes a show of stretching and taking his time walking to the door. “Hey, for your planning spreadsheet, you’re missing Queensr?che and Pansy Division in your list of 1990s bands. Pro tip.”

She makes a shooing motion, even though it is, technically, also his room.

He rolls his eyes and leaves.

Sydney waits a requisite, petty few minutes through the end of the game and the incredibly endearing line of players giving the goalie head pats before grudgingly updating the spreadsheet. And then she sits, laptop open, and considers the pile of clothes on her bed. The acoustic guitar is where she left it beside the nightstand in the early hours of the morning.

She looks at the laptop screen again. Sydney doesn’t have to swipe to the other tab to remember the words on it. She doesn’t have to pick up her guitar to feel out the beginning reverberating notes of the song segment that’s been sitting between her ears for the last several hours. She can hear it in her head: a slow, wailing riff over a low, hard bass line.

The devil’s in the details when you make deals with devils,

but wisdom’s no match for want

And I want, and I want, and I want

I want you to haunt me like a house you’ll abandon

I think I can stand it if you take me for granted

I’m all doors, no locks, just come inside

Take what you find

Fuck shit up

Rob me blind